Autumnal Poem by David Welch

An undercurrent is flowing,
the chill is just a bit at first,
in the evenings, feel it growing,
but in the mornings it's the worst.

The leaves are so slowly dying,
green growing dingy, hints of red,
yellow is the first out flying,
flutters down to its forest bed.

Orange then shows up proclaiming
the days of ghosts and goblins near,
folks pick the apples remaining,
stores sell the Oktoberfest beer.

All the undergrowth withering,
insects slowly go to their death,
hunters in blaze are appearing,
speak of the bucks they hope to get.

Inside the fires are burning,
the wood smoke strikes a primal note
against all the frosts returning,
making people dig out their coats.

The sun on horizon fading,
noontime light dimmer than before,
like the whole word's dissipating,
and we'll see it fresh nevermore.

But the cycle's ever turning,
moments swallowed by restless change,
without that there'd be no yearning
to gaze on the autumn again.